


Do You Like What You See? ~Part 1~

by Hollandoodle



Series: Do You Like What You See? [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater, Caught in a Storm, F/M, Fleeing to Winterfell, Maybe a touch of, Post Blackwater, Two Shot, Voyeurism, Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Sandor has rescued Sansa and they are fleeing King's Landing. On their way North, Sansa explores her feelings for him.She encounters an intriguing scene in an inn they seek shelter in to avoid a coming storm, and Sandor helps her recreate what she sees, with heated results.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Westerosi fic, so be gentle <3 I'm pretty devoted to my Modern A/U's. 
> 
> I just love Sansan, and I owed some of you this attempt for being so encouraging and supportive on my other fics.

Sansa stood on the balcony inside the inn, overlooking the smelly, crowded common room below. The Hound--no,  _ Sandor _ \--had instructed her to stay in the room, but she'd been unable to stand the confinement after so long in her cage that was the Red Keep.

And Sandor wasn't there--the one constant in her life over the last couple of years. He'd saved her more times than she could count in King’s Landing. And now that he'd taken her from her cage in the dead of night while Wildfire rippled through the streets and consumed the water of Blackwater Bay, Sansa knew this was yet another instance where she owed her life and any possible future happiness to that grumpy beast of a man.

_ Her savior _ , for certain, though he despised being thusly addressed.  _ “Keep your bloody courtesies, girl,” _ he'd say, moments before giving her the last piece of meat from whatever wild animal it was they'd eaten for their meal, before giving her the last drop of fresh water until they came upon another stream, or after giving her the space between he and the fire so that she might be the only warm person in their small travelling party of two.

He proved himself a savior day after day and yet utterly refused to take credit for it. But tonight she'd made a decision--she would offer a method of repayment that she was prepared to give freely and the refusal of which she was not prepared to accept.

She was aware that upon being delivered back into the waiting arms of whatever family she had left, she would be expected to marry. This was something she did not want. 

She didn't want to be sold to the highest bidder where the powers that be deigned her a  _ suitable match _ for one lord or another. After having spent such a large portion of her life in the hands of the enemy in King’s Landing, any match would likely be deemed acceptable, even if he was of an age with her grandfather. She didn't want to be placed on the arm of a greedy Northerner who valued her for her name and lineage and whatever notoriety her presence could bring to his household.

And she did not want the sole measure of her value to be what now resided between her legs--that untouched part of her that men seemed to hold in such a high esteem that she often wondered if the other sex was indeed a completely different animal altogether. For really, what was it--her maidenhead--other than a piece of her that never in fact belonged to  _ her _ , but rather a place on her body held in possession by every male in her family, as well as the perceived possession of every sodding male human in all of Westeros??

The thought irked her even more now, despite its presence in the forefront of her mind for nearly the entire duration of her and Sandor's flight from the Red Keep.

Down below a ruckus was escalating, as a group of disheveled men broke into song, whores perched on several of their laps. From Sansa’s standpoint up on the balcony, her cloak’s hood drawn low to hide her face in shadow, she could see clear down the fronts of the whore’s dresses, deep between their breasts. The flesh jiggled and shook with their movements and the jostling of the men beneath them.

Sansa wasn’t so well-endowed as those women, and she doubted her breasts ever jiggled. But that was just one more issue that arose in her mind when thinking of the topic of husbands.

Her ideal, perfect husband at one point was to be slight of stature, blindingly handsome, with blonde hair and a charming smile. His gaze would make her heart flutter with nervousness, and his barest touch left her faint and dizzy. 

_ Joffrey _ . What a fool she’d been.

He had never looked at her figure the way these men looked at the whores perched on their thighs--like they were a feast to be devoured at the earliest opportunity. 

Joffrey had barely tolerated her, as she’d heard plenty of times from overhearing conversations between maids. Sansa was too tall, which made her seem too thin, and she hardly filled out the dresses made for her by the keep’s seamstresses. 

She looked on the men below and imagined herself to be one of those women, and the man whose hand pawed at her chest had white hair and wrinkled skin, perhaps a few gaping holes in his mouth where his rotting teeth had finally given up hope and had just left his gums prematurely.

Sansa shuddered at the thought.

No, she refused to be one of those maids, married off to the highest bidder with the most advantageous match to offer her family. Just earlier today she had made up her mind.

Another whore came out from behind the counter somehow carrying six sloshing tankards full of wine in her hands, laughing and winking at any man who slapped her bottom. Every time a  _ smack _ of hand on fabric resounded in the crowded hall, Sansa flinched.

She thought on the events of that morning, when she had naively brought up to Sandor that he would be welcome at Winterfell for all that he had done for her, not only during her imprisonment in the Red Keep but also for keeping her safe, hiding her in the woods from marauders and bandits, as well as from wild beasts, and the prospect of freezing to death at night.

No, he was no knight, he was better than any of them had been, though he hadn’t wanted to hear that from her. He had even gone so far as to deny that he would be welcome in Winterfell.

He’d been the king’s dog. He had stood by as her father’s head had rolled. He did the king’s bidding and never questioned it, or so he said. She knew otherwise--he  _ did _ question it, especially when it came to mistreatment of her.

Sandor was the only person who reminded her to keep her feet on the ground in King’s Landing, the only person who looked out for her, who had thought of her during the battle of the Blackwater. Yes, he had fled from that fight but having intimate knowledge of how he’d received his scars, Sansa couldn’t find in herself any blame to cast at him for doing so. 

He’d proven himself to be the best of men, and she had decided just this morning that if she had the wherewithal to find a husband of her own choosing, one that would please her and care for her and be kind to her, that she would bestow her favor upon Sandor every day for the rest of her life. In her heart of hearts she knew she would never find a man who had ever been, nor who ever would be, as true to her as Sandor.

Not that she had told him that--for she knew he would have rejected her words as surely as he would have rejected her assertions he was the best of men. 

No, she had chosen to show him in a different way, after she’d given him several small tests throughout the day just to make sure the second part of her plan was feasible.

It started that morning when she’d woken up. She had remained still, knowing he slept behind her but not knowing exactly what position he was in. 

On his back, and this wouldn’t work. 

Facing away from her and it would be incredibly awkward. 

So she took the risk and rolled back slowly, feigning a full-body stretch and struggling not to tense when her body came in contact with his.

It had been as though she were a puzzle piece and he was the puzzle--she felt his knees behind her legs, the cup of his pelvis behind her bottom, the rigid plate of armor from his breastplate at her back.

And his  _ breath _ \--though she stopped moving immediately upon coming into contact with his body, keeping her breath slow and even despite the rapid pace of her heart, she could feel the warm air from his mouth hitch so close to her hair. 

She instantly knew he was awake, and the prospect of beginning her plan both terrified her and excited her.

His breathing was shallow and yet he didn’t move, but rather stayed where he was, fully aware, she knew, of her proximity to his body.

That was just the first test.

It wasn’t long after that he rolled away, leaving her feeling bereft of that second layer of heat that had come from the barrier of his body, and she’d risen as well, only to find him stalking off into the tree line of the small clearing where they had made camp for the night.

Test two happened when he’d returned, a snare in one hand and a rabbit in the other. She’d heard his big, loud footsteps coming from behind her so she’d brought the already moistened cloth to her exposed neck and began cleansing her skin, all of her auburn hair held high on her head with her other hand.

The footsteps stopped, and Sansa had held still for a moment before turning, placing a shocked expression on her face as she let her hair drop and tugged the neckline of her dress back up to its appropriate height.

“Excuse me,  _ my lord _ , I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.” Demurely she’d lowered her eyes and made like she was putting away the cloth, but really she was watching him--watching him not move a muscle as he watched her for a few moments.

Her tests had rendered positive results thus far, as she was certain he was affected by her. His stillness that morning on their bedrolls, and the way he studied her then as she resumed her morning tasks, was enough to convince her that a physical attraction to her from him was indeed already in place.

She had one last move to make and it would happen later in the day, once she’d had an opportunity to change dresses and get ready for their tandem ride atop Stranger’s broad back.

But then something happened that caught Sansa off guard.

She had spoken to Sandor about the change, and he’d instructed her to go to the other side of Stranger and he would turn his back. 

It took a bit longer than she’d expected to get the dirty dress off and to maneuver the fresh one back on, but once she had and she was satisfied with the new lower neckline and the way it showed just the barest hint of her cleavage, she’d known she would need help with the laces in the back.

As she stepped out from behind Stranger into the clearing she was confronted by none other than Sandor’s wide, muscular, very naked back.

He’d heard her footsteps, just as she’d heard his earlier, although at the sound of hers he turned immediately, fresh tunic in hand.

Whereas she’d been nervous for him to see her neck and shoulders exposed like he’d had, his gaze now was different, different than any gaze he’d ever directed her way.

As she held a hand to her chest, making sure the dress didn’t fall without the laces done, she froze as he stared for a moment, taking in the slight state of undress she was still in. Without looking down, he twisted the tunic this way and that until he found what he was looking for, all the while affording Sansa a view of what she’d never before seen on a man before.

His arms were thick and muscled, peppered with small scars from his many years as a soldier. His shoulder was a round cap of muscle, his chest large--and hairy, hairier than any boy’s chest she’d seen as a youngster. 

Sansa stared at it, realizing her fingers twitched with wont of feeling that hair.

At that thought her eyes darted back up to his, though he didn’t smile in chauvinistic authority at having seen a maiden blush at his body. Rather, his face seemed to mirror her regard, and in his eyes she now saw that attraction revealed, as though he’d just stopped trying to hide what had been there all along.

“I… Uh…” Sansa forgot what she was supposed to say as he lifted the tunic and drew it down over his head, her eyes wandering over the ripples and dips and curves of muscle on his torso as he moved. 

Goodness. She’d had no idea. 

No one had ever told her a woman could be affected by a man thusly. Neither Septa Mordane nor her own mother had ever spoken of… of…

_ Gods _ , he was beautiful.

“I need help,” she squeaked, her voice sounding more like that of a mouse than a grown woman. She cleared her throat and continued, “I need help with my laces. Would you be so kind?”

Sansa felt the flush that was covering her skin and knew there was no way to cover it. 

Sandor looked so stern then, as though she’d said something that had displeased him. His scars were tight and his beard unkempt from having not been tended in a few days. 

But she recognized another facet of her regard for him now, and it surprised her to find it was only in conjunction with the attraction she now found herself experiencing for his body, rather than as a result of it.

He was handsome. Of course, she’d known he was younger than the men she would likely be matched with once she returned home, as well as more virile and powerful, having spent his entire life as a soldier in King’s Landing. 

But there was something about his face--something handsome, something rigid and angular and yet kind and protective. The way those gray eyes bore into her whenever he wanted her to understand what it was he was saying, what advice of his he wanted her to heed.

And as he strode towards her, loose tunic flowing about his body now without the benefit of armor covering him, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the positive maleness of him, and she turned quickly, averting her eyes finally, which is what she should have done upon finding him undressed in the clearing.

“Thank you,” she said before he’d touched her, thinking to defuse the tense moment by putting the image of his naked chest out of her mind.

But then he touched her skin, and she felt it--the lingering of fingers where they need not linger, the closeness of his body to hers where he could easily have kept a decent amount of space between them.

_ Oh yes _ , she affected him, but much to her consternation she realized he affected her just as much.

He’d tied the laces deftly, though the places where his fingers brushed against her skin burned as though he leaked fire from his own. Even later, after they’d broken camp and he lifted her up onto Stranger before climbing on behind, having once again donned his armor and sword, she felt more keenly now the presence of him behind her. 

It was all she could do to hold herself upright, as she now felt the desire to lean into him and to feel his arms wrap around her without the hindrance and responsibility of having to hold onto Stranger’s reins.

Sansa shivered where she stood now, on the balcony in the inn as she remembered that first moment of awareness atop the massive warhorse. She didn’t know how she’d missed the press of his thighs against hers, or the wall of man at her back, nor the length of muscular arms that surrounded her the entire time they rode.

Test three came later that morning as Stranger plodded through the sparse trees and the sun took the opportunity to make itself known as the clouds faded away over the horizon.

Sansa perched side-saddle atop the tall horse, with her side pressed against Sandor's armor, the heat of his thigh seeping through her gown and warming her skin.

It took her a few moments of prompting herself silently to go through with her plan, before she finally untied the front of her cloak and let it fall around her arms, holding it around her but exposing to Sandor the open expanse of skin at her chest and shoulders. She clenched the fabric of her cloak in her hands tightly, willing her nerves to calm.

“What are you doing,” came the familiar rasp behind her. Sansa glanced back, though she didn’t smile. She’d never been one to use artifice, to act coy and demure in front of a man. She ended up doing it anyway sometimes, as she could remember a plethora of times Joffrey had reduced her to a simpering, silly-headed female, but she was completely incapable of creating it spontaneously.

Not that Sandor would want a silly-headed woman, she was sure, but she thought a few eyelash battings might serve her purposes.

Unfortunately when she looked back at him she realized the proximity of his face to hers was such that she lost her breath, and her gaze inadvertently fell upon his mouth, which was set in a firm line as he looked at her.

“It’s warm,” she breathed, not realizing her eyes were focused on the smoothness of his lips beneath his mustache until they parted to allow him to speak.

“That is an impractical dress,” was all he said, his voice lacking what surely would have been gruff reprimand had they still been in King’s Landing. 

He never failed to point out in the city when she was being impractical, or when her own actions might cause her undue harm. But now his voice was deep, a rumbling growl that brought her gaze up to meet his.

What she saw there made her stomach flip, a wholly different reaction to the faint flutters Joffrey’s countenance had once caused in her. Sandor’s eyes focused on her, the sight of his scars--close enough for her to touch had she been so bold--enticing her, the thickness of his beard and those soft lips pressed together in resolve; they all worked together to make her insides suddenly feel as though they were caught in a whirlpool. 

She had to turn away, lest he see how suddenly out of breath his proximity had made her feel, and the matter of the dress was dropped, although her feminine instincts told her he took ample opportunity to study the smooth skin peeking above the neckline of the gown.

Back in the inn there was a commotion down below her, and she looked, leaning over the railing to see two men exchanging blows almost directly beneath her position. She was glad to see the Hound was not one of them.

She surveyed the room again to see if he was there, and to see if somehow he had gone against his word and instead stopped for some wine rather than immediately coming back to her as he'd said. 

That's when she caught sight of someone sitting at a table in the middle of the room, a man who for a moment appeared to be Sandor, but a second glance found thighs that were a bit too short and a belly too round. Yet, the resemblance was otherwise striking. 

The man's hair was the same length and color, and his voice, which she could hear even from her great height, was deep and raspy like Sandor's. His hands were also large, wrapping easily around the tankard that was brought to him while Sansa watched.

She almost gasped as she noted the color of the whore’s hair.

It was the same color as her own; the color of fire.

Sansa's hands gripped the railing as she watched the girl laugh at something the man said, leaning down under the guise of letting him whisper in her ear when it was obvious to both Sansa and the man that this afforded him a vulgar view of her breasts that were nigh spilling out the top of the loose neckline of her gown.

“Do you like what you see, little bird?”

_ Of course _ \--Sansa had been so engrossed in the scenes below that she hadn't realized Sandor now stood just behind her. Now that she was aware of his presence, she was also aware of his sudden proximity.

As she briefly turned her face towards him her hood, hiding her hair and her sudden embarrassment at having been caught watching the scene below, slipped to her shoulders as she wondered if he in fact knew the direction of her gaze. 

Sansa allowed her eyes to travel over the crowd, willing them to look as though they were taking in all of the events happening in the large room. But try as she might, she could not prevent them from repeatedly landing on the red headed whore, who had just perched herself on top of the man's thighs, her body angled in Sansa's direction so that both Sansa and Sandor had an unobstructed view of whatever it was the man was doing to her.

“Do I like… what, my lord?” 

Sansa’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, though it caught on the last word. She wasn't even aware of the courtesy she'd offered as the man below lifted a hand and traced a single finger along the dirty lace at the edge of her gown.

Sandor didn't answer her, but moved closer to her, coming up so that she could feel his warm breath stirring in her hair. 

Sansa didn’t know what was happening--why her mind was a tangle of thoughts as a warmth began to gather low in her belly. 

She knew that now they both watched as the redhead leaned in and whispered something into the man’s ear, to which he loudly replied something that made the whole table of men roar with laughter.

Sansa felt Sandor’s hand press against her waist through her cloak, and she gasped, feeling the movement of her hair as his mouth whispered into her ear.

“What is it you want, little bird?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again! Fancy seeing you here! <3
> 
> No, I don't know all the pieces of armor. Yes, I know this time period (post-Blackwater) had been done over and over and over and over and over and... You get the idea.
> 
> Blame it on my new HBO subscription and how I'm almost through Season 1 of GOT. I'm getting nostalgic.

With her hands still on the railing, Sansa sucked in a breath as Sandor's hand slid forward and rested flat on her stomach, pulling her back against the hard metal of his breast plate. 

She wanted to answer him, and yet she didn’t want to argue with him, which she knew would happen if she brought up the subject of his pardon once they reached Winterfell. So instead she allowed him this touch, and she resumed watching the couple below, seeing only now that Sandor’s hand was mirroring that of the man on the bench, whose own was wrapped around the woman’s waist and was holding her side against his body.

Is that why Sandor had done it? To show her they both watched the same goings on in the common room? She began to wonder what else he would mirror when the man brought his lips down onto the woman’s bare shoulder, making her giggle at him as she watched his attentions.

Sansa saw the top of Sandor’s head in her sideview a moment before she felt his mouth press to the fabric covering her shoulder, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her entire body tensed, knowing that she was currently in a state of intimacy with a man unlike any other she’d ever allowed. 

She felt his kiss as though his lips had made contact with her bare skin, and she was dismayed to find herself wondering what that would indeed feel like--his finger dragging at her collar to expose her throat, the rasp of beard against untouched flesh, his warm lips on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. 

Sansa shivered.

But no,  _ her hood _ ! Sansa tensed. Red hair on a whore was one thing, but there was a chance that by this time word had gotten around that she was gone from the city, and the Hound as well. Thus far he’d secured actual lodging for them only tonight based on the storm that had appeared on the horizon, but previously had kept them safe in the forest, away from prying eyes and dangerous men. 

Sandor seemed to understand her body’s reaction to her exposure, as his hand slid away from her dress to grasp the fabric of her hood. He slowly and gently drew it back into place, before returning his hand to the front of her gown.

Below, another fight had broken out by the door, which quickly moved outside as the innkeep shouted and slapped the group of fighting men with his broom. The woman and her man eyed the commotion, but then resumed their playfulness, this time with the man’s hand coming up to cup her breast, squeezing the ample mound of flesh through the brown dress even as he spoke and she responded.

Sansa felt as though her eyes would be scandalized. She’d never seen a man give attention to a woman in that manner, and was entranced with what he was doing to her. 

Did she like it? Did it hurt? He seemed to be kneading her breast as though it were dough.

But yes, she was  _ leaning into _ him, which surely meant she liked it. 

Sansa felt her own nipples harden at the thought, just as Sandor’s hand slid upwards towards her breast over the rough fabric of her woolen cloak.

She gasped and stopped his hand with her own, hearing his ragged breath beside her ear as they continued to watch the man turn to his companions and speak, even while his hand moved over and caressed and weighed the whore’s breast.

Closing her eyes for just a moment, Sansa swallowed hard and flexed her fingers over Sandor’s wide hand, feeling the short hairs tickle her palm as she began to drop her arm and release him.

But then she thought better of it, deciding then not only to allow him to continue, but to encourage the touches. After all, this is exactly what she wanted, and she was quickly losing sight of all the burdensome lessons taught to her by Septa Mordane as a child, lessons about propriety and lineage and proper behavior of a young lady.

Sansa gripped his hand and slid it up to her breast, only stopping once his large hand covered her flesh, though she still did not remove his hand.

“Little bird,” he growled into her ear. 

His other hand took the place on her waist where the cloak was still warm from his touch.

Sansa watched the man’s hand and moved Sandor’s, manipulating her breast through Sandor’s hand--squeezing, cupping, weighing, and suddenly it didn’t feel so small, not with how Sandor’s cheek rested against the hood of her cloak as he took up the ministrations, her hand resting on his as  _ he _ squeezed, as  _ he _ cupped and weighed her soft flesh.

The man on the floor below moved his hand to the other breast and Sandor did the same, causing Sansa to gasp loudly enough that he shushed her softly through the fabric at her ear.

“Tell me to stop, little bird, and I will,” he whispered huskily. His voice was broken, and Sansa knew he was similarly as affected by the moment as she was.

So she didn’t say anything--only leaned back against him as both he and the man below lifted both their hands to feel and caress the breasts of the women in their arms. 

Sansa moaned as he kneaded her skin, squeezing them together as the man did with the whore’s breasts, and she followed suit when the woman raised a hand above to wrap behind the man’s head. Sandor’s hair was soft, and without hesitation she slid her fingers into the thickness of it at the nape of his neck.

“So fucking perfect,” Sandor said, though his almost bitter words belied the desire she now recognized in his tone. He was upset, disquieted, and she was the cause.

It made her feel good. It made her feel… powerful. In control.

Though she also had never felt so out of control in all her life.

This--what Sandor was doing to her body--felt better than anything she’d ever felt before. She now knew why no one had told her about it. It was a wonder any young women ever made it to the marriage bed with their maidenhood intact. These sensations were so delicious, the feel of his large, warm hands caressing her body were so enticing, that Sansa’s resolve to have him as her husband was multiplied tenfold.

Only Sandor would tell her to stop him. Only Sandor would give and not take. Only Sandor would do this at her bidding, instead of his own desire. 

She knew how she wanted this night to end but she didn’t know how to get there, so instead she resolved to let this play out and to see exactly what would happen if she gave into these carnal instincts Sandor was awakening in her.

Her courage bolstered by this assertion, she clamped her hand into Sandor’s hair, willing him to feel that resolve.

Then Sansa froze as the man in the common room slid a hand down into the woman’s dress, the movement of his hand beneath the fabric making it obvious that he in no way softened his attentions.

Sansa couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped her mouth as heat circled and pooled between her legs. Something was happening to her body, but as she watched this man fondle the whore’s breast from both inside and outside the fabric, Sansa instantly desired the same of Sandor’s hand.

“Sandor,” she gasped, and she felt his moment of hesitation before he withdrew one hand and dragged her cloak out of the way. It only took a moment for his fingers to find the laces at the back of her dress, to tear at the thin cording until the top few sprung apart. 

Then his hand was coming back around, pulling the cloak back to cover her as he placed his palm flat over her heart.

Beneath his hand she could feel the thumping of her heart, and knew that he would feel it, also. So to ward off any reservations he might have at progressing further down this path, she brought her own hand over to the fabric of her dress and she pulled slightly, opening the smallest of pockets for his hand to enter.

“Little bird,” he rasped, and his large, callused hand touched her skin for the first time, spreading over her chest as the fabric gave way, and he slid his hand down into her bodice beneath the fabric of both dress and shift, to cover her small breast in his hand.

It was… There were no words. Sansa thought of the sweetest lemon cake she’d ever tasted in King's Landing and knew this--his rough palm against her sensitive skin--was sweeter. 

“Oh, Sandor,” she gasped softly, watching the man on the bench as he now did things to the woman that Sandor couldn’t--kissing her bare shoulder and neck, nipping at her earlobe (did that indeed feel good?? Sansa wanted to find out!), then using his other hand to encircle the woman’s throat to hold her back against him.

Much to Sansa’s surprise, the woman looked not at all threatened by the action of the man’s hand, but rather  _ excited _ , as her mouth fell open and she smiled wantonly, her eyes closing briefly as she moaned loud enough for Sansa and Sandor to hear.

Sansa was positive now that what was happening to her between her legs--that heaviness, and how she was beginning to feel moist--was a natural reaction of her body to the sensations being given to her by Sandor and his wonderful hands. Though she had never experienced anything like it before, she knew it felt  _ good _ .

Sandor moved his hand beneath the fabric of her dress, doing the same things he’d previously been doing to the outside and that he indeed was  _ still _ doing on her other side--kneading and cupping her softness, and moving it around to feel the weight of it in his hand. Sansa released another breathy groan as he coordinated the efforts of his hands and they moved together.

That was, until he took her nipple between his fingers and pinched ever so slightly.

Sansa did cry out then, as the sensation was a jolt of lightening to her core.

“Sandor!” she cried, only to have his one hand come up to cover her mouth suddenly, hearing the rasping chuckle he released at her ear.

“Shh, little bird, or you’ll give us away.” His thumb stroked her cheek, though he seemed to think better of letting go of her mouth as he repeated his action, pinching the hardened nub before twisting it lightly in his fingers, just enough to make her squirm against him. She knew why he’d kept his hand on her mouth, for she surely would have cried out in pleasure at the sensation.

“Sansa,” he growled, using her name which he so seldom did. It was a caress to her ear, hearing him say it. Then he said again, “Perfect. So fucking perfect.” His voice was strained, and Sansa saw that as he spoke the woman turned on the man’s lap and he popped one round breast from within the confines of her dress and bent over to take the peak into her mouth.

Sansa watched, stunned, as the man swirled his tongue around the woman’s nipple, then made a show of baring his teeth and taking the small bit of flesh between them, making the woman gasp and giggle. Sandor dropped his hand from her mouth back to her breast at the sound.

The woman was  _ liking _ it, Sansa marveled, and she was encouraging the man. 

This was new. Sansa never would have expected that a man would do that to a woman’s breast. She’d heard her brothers speaking of breasts in terms of sizes and whatnot, but never had they said they would be… that they would do  _ that _ . Surely only babies nursed in such a manner? 

Then the thought occurred to her that this was just one more thing young women were not taught about what could happen between a man and a woman.

She wondered, what would Sandor’s mouth feel like, pressed to her skin in that manner? His teeth on her nipple, his tongue tasting her, his beard scratching at her, leaving red marks on her skin as this man’s beard was doing to the whore’s breast. Would Sansa enjoy it? Then, without a second thought, she just knew the answer would be  _ yes _ . Yes, she would most assuredly enjoy Sandor taking the flesh of her breast into his mouth, and she wanted to feel it. Now.

“Sand-or,” she said, the word breaking as he once again pinched her sensitized skin inside the bust of her dress. She followed it up with a moan, unable to keep in the audible sounds of pleasure she experienced at the combined assault on her body and mind, her mind conjuring images of Sandor’s face at her chest, his mouth tasting the flesh on her breast.

“Yes, little bird,” he finally answered.

“I want that,” she ground out as he shifted them so he could slide his hand inside her dress to the other side, giving the same attentions to her other breast. If she’d thought his manipulation of the one breast was delicious, him moving to the second one was pure bliss. 

“You want what?” he asked, his mouth hovering just above her temple.

Sansa swallowed, pushing past those years of ingrained propriety lessons that wanted to choke her now.

“I want you to kiss me like that. Like what that man is doing.”

At that he stopped, his hands falling still on her breasts. She thought for a moment that he would tell her no, that they had already gone too far, but then his hands were suddenly gone from her dress and he was pulling her towards the door to their room, pushing her inside and turning to lock the door.

Sansa untied the cloak and let it fall to the ground, but when she went to pull at the neck of her dress Sandor held out a hand to stop her.

“Wait,” he said, though the word was very nearly a gasp as he began to work at the clasps on his armor. “Help me,” he ground out, but she heard it for the plea that it was. He wanted out, and he--the big man, the Hound, the scourge of the seven kingdoms--was asking her to help him out of his armor.

It was serious work, and finally he stood before her in his tunic, breeches and boots. Again she went for the neck of her dress, ready to pull it off and resume what they’d been doing out on the balcony, but again he stopped her.

The change came so fast she wasn’t sure what had happened--one moment he was looking at her like she was a lemon cake, and the next he had his hands on his hips and had halfway turned away from her, his head fallen forward towards his chest.

They stood that way for a few minutes, neither of them speaking as the humming inside Sansa’s body settled to a low thrum. Uneasiness crept in and she swallowed down the doubt that she now felt.

“I want this, Sandor,” she said, attempting to show her resolve in the tone of her voice. He merely looked at her, a kind of sadness showing in his gaze.

“You don’t know what you want,” he said resignedly.

That made Sansa angry, and she stepped closer to him, until she stood before him, looking up into his face.

“No,  _ you _ do not know what I want. And what I want is you.” There, she said the words.

Sandor looked down at her as though she was boring him.

“You don’t know what you want because you don’t know what this would mean.” He swung an arm encompassing the small room. Sansa shook her head, but attempted to keep her frustration at bay. She needed him to understand.

“Sandor, I want everything.” 

She took a step towards him and he stepped back.

“I want you.”

Another step taken, another step retreated.

“I want your companionship, and your touches.”

And another.

“I want you to be my husband, because I know no one else will treat me the way I deserve.”

Another.

“Your family will desert you, little bird.” His words were a denial but his eyes shone with uncertainty. “You will lose their support.”

“I’m done with others dictating where I will go, who I shall be, and to whom I will marry. I just spent a part of my life at the whim of an immature, irrational boy king and I refuse to allow my life to fall into someone else’s hands.” Now it was her hands that were on her hips, and she watched his eyes dart to the open neck of her dress and then back up to her face.

“Sandor, I want you as my lord and husband. I  _ choose _ you, don’t you see? And if we do what I want to do, and if we find someone we can pay to marry us without witnesses, we can arrive in Winterfell and tell my mother and brother that there is nothing they can do.”

“They could put my head on a pike.”

“But they won’t! Don’t you see, Sandor? My family is a family that knows love, despite their insistence that I make a good match.”

Sandor snorted, though his gaze remained on her. 

“I am a landless second son. I’m not even a knight.” His words were meant to dissuade her but all she heard was that he felt unworthy. To this, she answered first by reaching out and taking his hand in hers.

“That matters naught to me, don’t you see? And isn’t my opinion the only one that should matter to you?”

“No opinion will matter to me if my head is on a pike.”

Sansa laughed then, softly as she brought his massive paw up to her face. She held his palm to her cheek and leaned into his warmth.

“They would never betray me by taking you from me.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between their bodies as she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her face against the broad expanse of chest. “They would never take  _ me _ from  _ you _ ,” she added, and in her heart she knew it to be true. Her family might insist on a wedding in front of the godswood at Winterfell, but Catelyn Stark would never tear asunder the marriage her daughter had willingly put together, albeit slyly.

“Please, Sandor. I’ll be a good wife to you,” she promised in a whisper, hoping that he would not turn her away now, not when she had laid out all of her plans and the contents of her heart at his feet.

His chest rose and fell on a sigh, her face moving along with it. For a moment he stood there and Sansa felt her last shred of hope fading.

But then he wrapped his arms around her, and she felt his breath against the top of her head as he lowered his mouth to her hair.

“Aye, girl, aye… I’ll marry you,” he conceded. But he held back and lifted her chin with a finger. “If... you tell me this is what you truly want--the old, scarred, hardened Hound, as your lord and husband, father to your children and bane of your existence.” 

With his arms around her, his body warming hers, and those gray eyes heated at the thought of taking her to wife, Sansa couldn’t now imagine a future for herself that did not include Sandor.

“Aye,” she whispered, letting her gaze be a caress as she looked over his uneven skin, his gray eyes and soft lips, to the strong corded neck and the hair that she could see beneath the neck of his tunic. 

A smile spread across her face as the corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and her eyes returned to rest on his. 

“I like what I see, Sandor. I want all that and more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this, but stay tuned for Part 2, coming soon!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading my fics. You guys are totally tubular! (That sounded cooler in my head, less geometric...)


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